White Privilage

I remember thinking these thoughts at age 10. Hardly anything has changed. 

I sift through inflaming thoughts, trying to quell my inner subversities- they are mirrored shadows of demons, maybe even NONE of them real. 

I am 31, going on 32. Here I dwell, at my mothers residence, the same way I grew up so harshly in my first half life.  

Here I dwell, stepping through cat litter, dust, fleas, water, cat piss and puke, roaches, and god knows what else. 

Here, I examine as I have done so many night before, the words strewn across the palate of my mind everyday. They are fears and memories, and all kinds of things out of my control.  

Happiness is a luxury I feel often, that I can no longer afford. 

And I don't know if my day will ever come, no longer so strong in hopes or dreams. American Privialge is many things left behind in unconstrued ways. It is the each of our story of delapidation and repression while portending freedom. 

I'd just as soon as die. 

As I have, most everyday. 

Accustomed to scathing dominions over me, like chains, and hunger, I eat my way through this life, for the love unknown as my most cherished request. Love even, of simple compassion. Genuinity.  

Here, though, the gates of Hell. 

And the only form of Heaven I know, 

Is the little left over in me.  

I have grown strong. 

But that does not diminish the path of an Angel's battle in Hell.  

The dominion is the soul, 

And the demons seek ever, to take that still. 

The Death: God's Dawn

I have been scraped across the planes of this life desert; 

Moons detect and wane, 

Never intruding of obvious malicious intent, but stirring storms oh. 

I wane too, motionless nearly, my bed, a drifting sea; 

My chest a floatation, my breath a heaving rapture to currents so. 

Capsized, and turnt over, I discover the underbelly of water, 

As a lucid dream through death and life. 

Every real face is an embodiment before my floating gaze, beneathe waters vast into God's dawn. 

The love in all of them, that I had seemed, I feel here, now, within me, into eternity.  

Always attributing it to love, but instead if has been a force of my manifestation all along- a force beyond bone, flesh, or thinking- 

A force that exists otherwise.  

A Souly matter.  

The mirror of time places my feet back on streets under light posts, and bare toes scraping against concrete earth. I have danced in that driveway, and cried, and laid out to manny a days. I have wandered these streets like Dorthy, searching for "home". Still, I wound up here. 

Here. 

Visioned back, and floating highly, the water has taken my breath and given me life. Lucidly, I pass now. Reflections on currents before an eternity. 

Tethered

Haven of all

Indignantly altered, 

Respite and soured, 

Brilliant and sore from spiraling upward towards a sun, streaked by man made weathering of skies

And all things below 

Naked in my cot, copied to tethered quilts, sliding into Copeland, and hyper dimensions for sleep, and dreaming. 

Tethered indeed to riveting cocktails and massacres of pride, and not all days I can wear my mask to face and play the charade of crowds. 

Coating old pipes of shallowed ware, the path of essence walks vividly, for myself to feel Into interpretation. 

Scorn and praise are sores on the soul in our bitter cynicism 

And yet bones that grow wings on our back- sheathes that yield strong density and shield. 

I could apologize endlessly, but who will apologize to me? Why weaken myself at the knees as though food to prey, surrendering. As though knots laying deep in the bedrock of my shoulder blades. 

I put it down last night. 

There was a deep chill in the winter air, and I closed the Windows, binding them at the middle, pulling the curtains 

To the oncoming season. 

Breakfast foretold lies, where words are tools toxic for Propaganda's point. 

The tongues of the righteous decieve, and we are all at war, in different forms of worshipping; some however do, 

Prefer darker forces. 

And all of us, seemed to have stepped into the acid trip of living. 

I love everything I touch. 

I will never apologize for this. For I am the hands of God, the way, another may be His heart, or Her breath, like a Gaia wind. 

Loving you never faulted me. Forgiving you, also is no must, for I share indeed the hand that suits journey's walked.  If I forgive you, it will come because I want to; neither because God "said", but because I felt to, and so I will. 

There is a death and a life that suits every man. Some of it written, some of it chance, some it it law. Most of it 

Mysterious. 

Breaking. 

Opening. 

Tethered, I sleep. 

Kneeled to you once, and now 

I sleep, thinking about my goodbye's to you . 

How the world has turned me cold, and I am returning your sentiments most angrily.

A woman's wrath, afterall. 

The Devil's Inquiry

Thin stacks of smoke 

Top my crawl space

As I postulate, exhaling, and watching them form. 

Thoughts build in me, possibilities

As I let them come and pass quickly, 

Allowing room for the constant incoming. 

Postulating in insights, and watching the herds and the sea, do the same. 

As alive as in the bank 

We move and run through. 

A spiritual war is most real, and more than any true thing I have known. 

It is marked by emotions and actions. 

Marked by feelings and repercussions of actions. 

Love is so wide, and within. As so, stirs darkness whereby, the light may shine. 

However, unholy actions are the devil's palms. 

 Running a muck on man's land. 

And challenging, challenging us so, 

As if to prove a point. 

Why Devil, must you win, so? To exist so differently? I do wonder.